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“What are you doing here, Mitch? You don’t care about me. You haven’t for a long time.”
“That’s not true and you know it. But, damn, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Are you going to send me to Iowa?”
It was the FBI’s favorite threat. And after what had happened two years ago in Dallas, they’d made it clear that it was no longer an idle one.
He shook his head. “I have a job you might be interested in.”
“A butcher shop that needs a new manager?”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you? It was just a suggestion. You like food and you’re good with knives.”
His phone rang and he put it to his ear. “No, the alley north of that. Uh-huh. I don’t give a shit. Bury him in the woods, feed him to some pigs. Just get rid of him. Yeah . . . One, but he doesn’t seem like the type who’s going to go to the cops. Forget him. I know she is. I already said I owe you, what more do you want? Fine . . .” He disconnected the call. “Where were we?”
“You were talking about a job,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Why would you be coming to me? Is this something Scott and his Boy Scouts can’t handle? No. They walk on water. Something that needs a feminine touch?”
His eyes shifted in a way that most people would have missed. They’d been together in their younger years and she could still read him. A smile began to play at her lips. “No, not a feminine touch. You’re into something too ugly for them. You’re isolated.”
“Something like that.”
Her smile broadened and she leaned back against the dash. “What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to go home to Italy. And I want funding to start my own fashion line.”
“Cut the crap, Donatella. You know I can’t do that.”
“You can do anything.”
“The Mossad wants you dead.”
“You and Irene could take care of that with a phone call.”
“Yeah, but we can’t take care of Hamas. Those guys really know how to hold a grudge. And we can’t do anything about the enemies you made when you were working private. Try again.”
“Why don’t you make me an offer?”
“Don’t you want to know what the job is first?”
“Not really.”
“All right. New face, new identity. A nice condo in New York overlooking Central Park. You stay away from the fashion industry, but I bankroll you in an art gallery.”
“Art?” she said. It was something she’d never considered. “I like art.”
“I remember,” he said, slipping his Glock into the holster beneath his arm. “You used to drag me to those openings.”
“I thought you could use a little culture. Apparently it didn’t take.”
CHAPTER 23
Tal Afar
Iraq
ANTHONY Staton moved along the shattered wall, finally getting a glimpse of his target in the moonlight. The building was constructed of concrete and had sustained a fair amount of damage from the war and ISIS’s recent takeover of the city. The bottom floor was burned out, but the entire top floor had apparently been renovated into a luxury flat. It was hard to believe from where he was standing. Great care had been taken to leave no outward evidence that it was habitable, and blackout shades went down every afternoon just before sunset.
